A Hard Night's Day
by Another Name For Rose
Summary: Sam and Dean reluctantly allow their younger sister to accompany them on a dangerous hunt.


A HARD NIGHT'S DAY  
By Rose and Nimtheriel

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 _This one's for Stevie_

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 _I never realized what a kiss could be_  
 _This could only happen to me_  
 _Can't you see_  
 _That when I tell you that I love you_  
 _You're gonna say that you love me too..._

I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me. Despite how late we'd all been out, despite my itching eyes and the comfortable couch I'd crashed on, I hadn't yet fallen asleep. Sam and Dean were already up. Beneath the familiar strains of my music, I could hear them clattering about in our motel room's tiny kitchen.

"Stevie, take out the trash." From Dean's short, gruff tone I determined that Sam had yet to make coffee. I thought briefly about leaving my wonderfully soft couch, then shrugged mentally and turned up the volume on my iPod.

I had a moment's respite before I felt someone sit down on the lone corner of the couch not occupied by my sprawling body. I opened my eyes just in time to see Dean reach over and pluck out one of my earbuds. "Houston to Stevie, come in Stevie."

"It's your turn," I grumbled. I reached for the earbud, but he held it out of reach.

"Come on, squirt, you can't spend all day on the couch."

I rolled over with a groan. "I need sleep! Not all of us can hunt Shades all night and be totally fine the next morning."

"Then why are you listening to..." Dean held the headphone up to his ear. "Is this Green Day?"

I twisted so I could hit him with a pillow. "It's the Beatles, you ass. It helps me fall asleep."

He was laughing as he dodged my swing. "You and your music. Give me Metallica any day. Now get up, you can sleep in the car."

My face brightened in a hopeful expression. "We're leaving?" A week living in this shitty motel smack-dab in the middle of Nowhere, Nevada was grinding my short patience into a smear of bad temperament.

Sam entered my field of view at that moment, drying his hands on a dishcloth. "Actually, we're just driving down to the river." He shot me an apologetic smile. "I think we've finally located the source of all the restless dead."

My eyes widened in surprise. After days of a kitchen table laden with newspaper clippings and print-outs from the Internet, I was beginning to think we'd never find the source. "Is it a Drowned Man? No wait, let me guess, a Willow's Widow."

Sam's smile faltered slightly. It was Dean who answered with uncharacteristic quietness. "Rusalka."

I took a breath. "I'm coming with you."

Sam immediately protested, as I knew he would. "Stevie it's too dangerous. Shades are one thing, but a Rusalka- "

"Is it because I'm a girl?" I demanded. "Or because I'm the youngest?"

"It's not like that," Dean began, and I turned immediately in his direction. Betrayal. Dean was always the one who stood up for me when Sam seemed to think I couldn't handle myself.

"Oh, come on," I wheedled. "I know everything Dad taught us. I know how to deal with a river spirit just as well as either of you."

"I still say she comes and stays back," Dean shot to Sam.

I gestured inarticulately. "Thank you!"

Sam raked a hand through his hair. "But if there's trouble..."

"I'll be a good girl, I swear," I promised, giving him my best puppy dog eyes.

His will crumbled beneath my adorableness. "Alright. You can come down to the river. Just stay safely out of the way, and whatever you do- "

"Don't look her in the eyes," I finished, wanting to show him I was prepared.

Dean stood and stretched, last night's exertions showing in his stiff limbs. "Right. That's settled. I'll get our gear in the car." He pointed a finger gun at me. "Stevie: trash. Sam: Where's the coffee?"

* * *

I peered through the reeds, feeling like a proper demon hunter in my black clothing and wide leather belt hung with tools. The getup started as a joke when I first began my unofficial apprenticeship at my brothers' side (both of them usually wore street clothes on their hunts), but I'd come to appreciate the outfit for its practicality. Now I almost always wore it when hunting.

For one thing, the shirt and pants washed easily, an important feature when you're spending an hour or more lying in mud along a riverbank waiting for the sun to go down and a Rusalka to materialize.

We'd gotten to the river around midafternoon, at which point we began preparations. There were measurements to take, old articles to consult, and arguments to have before we agreed upon the most likely place for the spirit to appear. Then, of course, we had to rig the trap nearby and get into a good vantage point.

And we waited...

At first, I remained perfectly still and as quiet as possible, mud oozing around me unnoticed. By the time the sun went down, I'd gotten bored and had popped in my earbuds. An hour later I was singing along.

"Did you have to bring that?" muttered Dean, who was lying on his stomach to my left.

" _...a haaard daaay's night!_ Sorry, what?" I clicked the volume control down a few notches.

Even in the dark, I could tell he rolled his eyes. You could practically hear it. "Why did you bring your iPod?"

"Uh, duh, I wanted to listen to music."

He smirked. "So fighting the ghost of a woman drowned for witchcraft doesn't scare you, but the thought of going without the Beatles for three hours is terrifying."

"I ain't afraid of no ghost," I drawled. In truth, I had brought the tunes to ease my nerves. My brothers had been in plenty of dangerous situations before, but Rusalkas were powerful and I _was_ a little bit worried. I didn't want my anxiousness to show in front of Dean, who was always so collected and smooth in the face of peril. My brothers were the bravest people I knew. They had to be for such a dangerous profession.

I stifled a yawn. The sun had only just gone down an hour ago, and I felt like taking a nap. Perhaps I could get one in before...

I yanked out my earbuds and jammed my iPod in my pocket, heartbeat speeding up to an almost painful rate. Undue sleepiness was one of the signs of a Rusalka. I looked up and down the riverbank with renewed focus and saw the second sign- a fog had crept over the area and was quickly thickening. I looked over to where Dean lay, scowling and rubbing his face intermittently. "Is it the Miasma?" I whispered, naming the sleep-inducing mist exuded by an awakening Rusalka.

He nodded. "Keep an eye out. And for God's sake, be careful. We've reason enough to believe she can raise other dead."

"Worried for me?" I teased.

"Worried about Sam ripping my head off if anything happens to you," Dean corrected. He reached over and ruffled my hair with a muddy hand, smiling when I scowled and brushed my locks irritably back into place.

Suddenly, Dean's expression went dead serious. His gaze had shifted over my shoulder. Naturally, I turned to look, and saw her.

She floated just above the river's black surface, tattered white dress hiding her feet. Her skin was deathly pale, a stark contrast to her raven's wing hair that hung lank and slick down her back, as if wet. She was turned away from us, so we couldn't see her face. **"** _wmmwnsssss **,**_ **"** she sighed, voice muffled.

I leaned closer to Dean. "What did she say?" I whispered, and he pressed a finger to his lips without taking his intense gaze from the floating woman.

With a sigh, I shifted my attention to the scrub where Sam was concealed. At any moment, he was going to jump to his feet and nail the ghost with a blast of rock salt. It wouldn't even slow down such a powerful spirit but it would sure as hell make her pissed. She would chase Sam to where Dean and I were hiding, and we'd throw the net of iron links over her to keep her contained while Sam "read her to death", as Dean put it. Of course, a lot of things could go wrong. She might not take the bait, or she might summon up some zombies and Shades to deal with Sam instead of chasing him herself. We had planned for every angle, more or less, in case of those deviations. But there was one thing we hadn't counted on.

Dean shifted restlessly, fingering his own rock salt shotgun. "Where is he?" he muttered as the Rusalka began to drift downriver. The thickening fog threatened to swallow her.

And suddenly I understood.

Fear clenched in my gut, fear for my brother and fear of the ghostly woman Dean and I were now facing alone. "He's asleep," I breathed.

Dean looked at me sharply. "He can't be. We're not."

"Look," I insisted, pointing towards Sam's hiding place, "see the fog? The Miasma is thicker over there. If it rushed up on him, he might have been overwhelmed."

Beside me, my brother swore. "You may be right. Stevie, get the net."

I felt a rush of warmth for Dean. At this point, Sam would already have ordered me back to the car. Dean trusted me. "What are you going to do?"

Dean cocked his shotgun. "Something stupid." He stood up.

I held my breath, heart stuttering as I watched my brother level his gun at the drifting spirit. "Hey!" he yelled. "Over here, b- "

The Rusalka turned, faster than I would have believed possible, even for a spirit. Dean was staring down the barrel of the shotgun, aiming, and he was too late to avert his gaze. I watched in horror as he drew a sharp breath, his whole body going rigid.

 _Her eyes,_ was all I could think through the grip of my fear, _he saw her eyes._ I shot the tiniest glance at the Rusalka, who was gliding closer. She was whispering something, raising a hand. And my brother just stood there, gun raised, pupils shrunk to dark specks as he stood helpless in the spirit's thrall. Mist thickened around his feet and began to coil up his legs, like a snake encircling its prey. The Rusalka drew nearer as I waited, frozen, for Dean's trigger finger to twitch and break the spell.

 _Screw the plan._ I leapt up and tackled my brother, breaking his eye contact with the ghost. We went sprawling through the muck and weeds. The only thought making it through my hyper-charged mind was _He's going to kill me for ruining his leather jacket._

Breathless, I looked up (but not _too_ up) in time to see the Rusalka shriek in rage at having her meal stolen. The sound of rustling leaves filled the air, even though there was no wind to cause it. Beneath me, Dean groaned and began to stir.

I snatched up his shotgun, eyed down the length, and feathered the trigger like Dad had taught me. My aim was spot-on; the Rusalka screamed again as the rock salt buckshot tore through her. She swooped towards us, mist swirling around her form.

"Stevie?" Dean mumbled, touching a hand to his brow. "I was talking to Dad..."

" _Dean, wake your ass up and grab the net!_ "I screamed, pumping the Rusalka full of more salt.

"Whassat?" he asked groggily, trying to push himself upright.

The Rusalka stopped dead in the air, causing my next shot to go wild. She drew a shuddering breath and turned her face from the girl with the gun to Dean, struggling to fight off both the aftereffects of the spell and the Miasma at the same time.

"Oh no you don't!" I shouted, slapping my last salt shot into the gun. The rustling grew louder...

I learned something important that night: There is no such thing as rock bottom for the Winchester family. We just keep falling.

The first Shade lunged at me out of the fog. Instinct kicked in- I whirled and shot it. This probably saved my life, as the knife-wielding remnant was instantly shredded and dispersed into the mist, but it also left me virtually weaponless. I seized the edge of the iron net and dragged it over the struggling Dean. It wouldn't protect him for long against Shades, which had greater resistance to the metal, but it would buy him some more time. I tossed the shotgun down next to him for when he finished waking (he would have more salt shots on him, wouldn't he?) and sprinted upriver along the bank, hoping to draw the Rusalka's attention. "Over here, witch! Gravity-defying devil's whore! Get your floating ass away from my brother before someone drowns you again!"

The spirit's eyes swept to me. I hastily looked back at the ground.

 **"** _Witch **,**_ **"** she said, and her form shuddered. **"** _They called me witch and took my children **.**_ **"**

I came to a stop as a Shade loomed in front of me. I no longer felt any fear for myself; it was all spent on my brothers. I had to finish this somehow, but Sam had Dad's journal with the banishment words.

Dodge past the Shade. Check to see if I was still followed. Black Converses slapping mud.

But the Rusalka seemed lost in thought, head tilted and expression pained. **"** _Drown me **...**_ **"** Her form glowed silver. **"** _But I have power here **.**_ **"** She thrust out an arm. I yelled as my feet left the ground and my body was slammed against a willow's trunk, causing something in my chest to pop and flare with white pain. The invisible force released me, and I fell hard onto mud and river stones.

Right. Witch.

I coughed, and tasted copper. Scrambling to my feet I felt the cold, clammy hands of a Shade close around my arm. As soon as I lashed out at it, another one seized my wrist. I wrenched at my captors' grips, yelling obscenities and shouting for Dean through the thickening fog.

 **"** _They hurt me **,** hurt my children **,**_ **"** the Rusalka whispered, gliding closer. **"** _They should pay **.**_ **"**

The Shades shoved me hard to the ground, where I was at the mercy of their feet. I cried out in pain and tried to curl up into a ball. "We didn't kill you! _I didn't kill you!_ "

The Rusalka seemed not to hear. **"** _Witch **,** witch **,** burn the witch **.**_ **"**

The unseen force dragged me forward, away from the Shades and into the icy cold river.

I struggled. Fought. Clawed at the water. All in vain. My heart pounded furiously, pumping the last shreds of oxygen I would ever know far too quickly through my veins, accompanied by primal fear.

 _OUT OUT gotta get OUT! !_

Too much water. Too much cold and black. Where was the surface? Had to get out. Pressure on my lungs, my screaming lungs. I gasped in a breath of water, and was drowning.

Thoughts foggy. Dean and Sam. Dad. I couldn't leave yet...

...

...

The darkness abated, just a little, in a rush of motion and movement. Warm hands, living hands, scared voices. My body was lead, inside and out. I could not move, even to breathe.

Something gave a shove to my abused chest. My body tried to scream, instead spewing a lake of water all over my brother. Then I was coughing and hacking like I'd never stop and my ribs were screaming and the darkness crept in again. Before succumbing, I remember seeing things, things that must have been dreams because Dean Winchester does not cry.

* * *

I awoke to conflicting emotions. They stemmed from two smells assaulting my nose- one that I hated, and one that made me feel safe.

I opened my eyes.

I was in a hospital room with white walls, white linens. Probably wearing one of those stupid smocks that shows your ass. A shudder ran through me. I _hated_ hospitals, the smell of their too-sterile rooms like a cold wind against bare skin.

Pushing myself groggily into a sitting position, I disturbed the source of the second scent- Dean's leather jacket, now slightly worse for wear after the thorough mudbath I'd given it. Someone had draped it over me, helping to mask the sterility of the air with the familiar, comforting smell of old car, fallen leaves, brotherly warmth.

Next my eyes found Sam, asleep in a chair pulled up by my bed. I smiled, then grimaced as my bruised face stretched. I must have made a noise as well, for Sam picked his head up and opened his eyes. "You're awake!" The chair made an awful grating noise as he scooted it closer. "How are you feeling?"

"Numb," I answered truthfully. Everything chest and down felt tingly and not quite there. "Did you bring me to the hospital just for the drugs?" Usually we preferred home treatment, as hospitals tended to ask annoying questions.

Sam smiled grimly. "Not just." He began ticking points off on his fingers. "You had three broken ribs. Assorted bruises and fractures. Residual water in the lining of your lungs. Oh, and mild hypothermia after we pulled you from the water." He spread his hands helplessly. "Is this going to happen every time we bring you on a hunt?"

"No," I sulked.

He actually laughed. "Good. We need you out there, Stevie."

My eyebrows tried to reach escape velocity as they shot up. I had been expecting a tirade about how I shouldn't have come with them or how reckless I was (an old favorite point of Sam's). Praise was...different. "What do you mean?"

"To hear Dean tell it, you saved both our lives. Whereas I..." Sam trailed off with a sigh and rubbed his face with one hand. "I slept through it all, right up until Dean woke me."

I knew him well enough to hear the bitterness in his words. He blamed himself for me ending up in the hospital. "It's not your fault," I said automatically. "Really. You couldn't have known the Miasma would be that strong. So," I chirped briskly, anxious to change the subject, "what happened?"

"Once Dean was fully lucid, he couldn't see you through the mist and there were Shades everywhere. He found me and woke me up- "

"How?" I interjected, prompting Sam to roll his eyes and mutter, "Threw me in the river." I snorted with painful laughter at the mental image. That sounded exactly like Dean. "Go on."  
"Then we heard you scream. He took the net, I took the journal, and while her attention was on you we managed to subdue and banish her. But then we saw you..." He swallowed. "When we got you out, you were so cold. You weren't breathing. I thought...I thought we'd lost you. Like we lost Mom." His voice wavered on the last word. Somehow, he managed to hold himself together. I remembered how he'd always been so protective of me when it came to the supernatural, and realized how hard it must have been to see his little sister risking her life after what had happened to our mom, to his girlfriend.

"Just don't scare me like that again," he said thickly, and reached over to catch me in a tight embrace. I held him tightly, my brother, until I was forced to groan "Ribs, Sam" to make him let go.

He sighed. "I'm proud of you. _We're_ proud of you."

I felt a warmth seep through me at his words. My brothers, my insane, courageous, veteran demon-hunter brothers were proud of me. I basked in the glow for a moment, then had to ask. "Where's Dean?"

Sam shot me a knowing look. "Off getting something. You know..."

"Oh. Right." I fought back a prickle of disappointment. "That whole hospital thing." A distaste I shared with my eldest brother.

"He only left twenty minutes ago. He sat by your side all through the night." Sam glared at me with mock severity. "Don't you dare tell him I told you that. He'd gut me for it."

"Poor Dean," I sighed. "So worried we'll see the best in him." I couldn't keep a straight face any longer, and we both cracked up.

Halfway through our outburst, the door swung open. "What are you kids laughing at?" Dean asked, slinging his backpack down by Sam's chair.

"Nothing," Sam answered, at the same time as my bright, "Speak of the devil."

Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother, who shifted, fidgeting under his glare, then muttered "Vending machine" and all but ran from the room.

"Hey, squirt," Dean greeted me, dropping into Sam's vacated chair.

I smiled at him, remembering what Sam had said about him spending the night by my side. "Hey."

I saw something flash through his eyes, and for just a moment I thought he was going to lean over and hug me as Sam had. "Thanks for saving my ass out there," he said instead.

My smile widened. "Thanks for saving mine."

"Yeah," he muttered. Shifted in his chair, like it was uncomfortable. "I got you something," he said finally. He reached down to unzip his pack and rummaged through it, pulling out a black DVD case. "Because daytime TV sucks," he explained, nodding at the old, boxy television near the foot of my bed. He had a moment's trouble finding the DVD drive and getting it to work. "Goddamn stone age technology," he growled under his breath.

"Says the man who still drives a '67 Impala," I couldn't help but snipe.

Dean turned to glare at me. "Stevie, what's the first rule of being a demon hunter?"

"Don't talk about demon hunting?" I ventured, biting back a grin.

"No. _Don't diss the car._ "

"Yes, Dean," I said meekly.

"Damn straight. There, it's working." He retreated to sit in the chair by my bed, turning it (more horrid grating noises) so he could see the screen.

I put a hand over my mouth in order to cover the wordless noise of surprise I made when I recognized the opening sequence. "How did you know to get _Stand by Me_?" It was my favorite comfort movie.

He grinned. "Because I'm an awesome brother?" he offered.

I punched him, grinning back, in the shoulder, then leaned against him as the first scene unfolded. For all that he mocked my tastes in music and film, he paid attention. He looked down at me, half-startled, half-uncomfortable, then seemed to accept it. By the second scene, Sam had returned from his vending machine expedition. He sat on my other side, sharing his spoils of potato chips and Skittles.

Now, it might seem a little odd that, so soon after fighting paranormal powers and almost dying, we all cuddled up and watched an old movie together. Perhaps it is a little odd, but really, it was just another hard night's day for the Winchester family.

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